18+ only. Erotica written by Booleanean. Stories also posted elsewhere: https://linktr.ee/booleanean
Asks, comments, and any interaction always welcome! Talk to me about my work, it's literally my favorite thing and keeps me writing!
40+
I use this blog to post my erotica. Some of it can be dark, may include alcohol or drug use, memory loss, contain dubious consent or non-consent, or other taboo topics. I'll do my best to tag stories appropriately, but if I mess up, I sincerely apologize. I'm trying to learn, but am imperfect. I realize it's not your job to correct me, but if you do, I promise I will listen and consider any pointers to include additional warnings if appropriate.
I have no real interest in writing erotica where consent is actually violated, so (spoiler warning) most (all?) of my non-con content is consensual non-consent. It won't always be clear at the beginning of the story, I like playing with giving the reader an incomplete picture, but should be by the end. I'll always tag stories appropriately, and include an author's note with spoilers if it includes non- or dub-con, even if it's later to be revealed to be con-non-con.
Krakentober
A Discord server I'm a member of is running a Krakentober event, with three prompts per day in October. They are Halloween themed, and include some darker topics. I'm following these prompts to try to broaden my horizons and write outside of my comfort zone. I'll tag them to the best of my (limited) ability, but generally consider them Dead Dove material. If you have suggestions for additional content warning tags, please send me an ask, I'll get to them as soon as I can.
I'm also writing these fast, some stories might have taken only a couple of hours from idea to publishing, so they'll be lower quality than I'm used to producing.
Where else to find me
I'm also active on Literotica, where my more vanilla content lives.
And AO3, which has the same content as here.
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Every day I handle more money than I will ever make. Every day.
At the start of my employment, my boss showed me videos of people stealing, and we both had a chuckle about it. How silly they were! There was a camera overhead, and it’s not to watch the shoppers. See, we can’t actually stop shoplifters. They get away with it maybe nine out of ten times. But we, who are watched and tallied and witnessed? We are always caught.
At first it was hard to hold one hundred dollars bills. An amount I had never seen before. An amount that didn’t exist in my household. It’s normal now. Here is something that is not for me.
“What the hell, I’ll take another,” says the man, pondering our 200 dollar watches. What the hell. Total comes to 580 and not even a flinch in his face. I have been working for 11 hours today and made only 110 dollars. It will go to my rent. Today I work for free, it feels. When I get my check, I will have 35 dollars left for food and saving.
The six hundreds he hands me go into the cash register. For a moment, I imagine having money. Then I put it away, counting out his change.
I know for a fact we sell our products for double what they are worth. That I could be making commission. That they could hand me those 580 dollars and change my life and not even mark the difference in their checkbooks. He’s not the only sale they make today, but I am the reason they made it. He’s not the only one spending 600 dollars, but if I hadn’t spent two hours with him telling me about his life, he wouldn’t have spent any. I go home. I don’t own a watch.
I have watched and rewatched a video on how to make salmon four ways. My shopping list is always the same. Pasta. Rice. Tuna. If I can afford butter it was a good week. I dream of the world I will never walk in, where I can throw the best fish fillet in the cart with a shrug. I hold hundreds in my hand and look up at the camera. I put them under the cash drawer.
I go to work. I scrap together my savings. I eat my bowl of rice slowly. My manager takes a paid week off from work just for his birthday. He owns a yacht.
i wrote this while i was working at orlando’s walt disney world parks.
i was part of their college program. i moved to the state for it. they legally owned the building i was living in and still charged me rent. i ostensibly was being charged to work for them. it was a 2 bedroom apartment and they placed 6 adult women in it in forced triples.
as many as one in ten disney employees have experienced homelessness while working for the company. despite huge efforts to unionize, strike, or otherwise demand fair treatment; disney has refused to increase employee quality of life.
disney admits publicly that a good portion of their success is because the employees (“cast members”) are dedicated, passionate, and selfless. this is never reflected in pay. even “face” characters (ie those that are princesses etc) make barely above a minimum wage.
at the time that i worked there, i made $8.50 an hour. at one point i was asked to create a human shield around a bag because a bomb dog had alerted to it. for eight fucking dollars an hour.
i now work a very cushy office job. i have bought the salmon and cooked it all four ways.
i go to the store. i am nice to the person behind the counter. she looks up at the camera while she counts out my change. there is nothing fundamentally different about her and i.
This involves heavy non-con. Julius Caesar is raped by Brutus and his coconspirators, under threat of death of his entire family. Julius Caesar sees them as weak and pathetic the entire time, and does not experience it as a traumatic event.
Julius Caesar receives some bad omens regarding the ides of march, and the spilling of something on the floor of the theater of Pompey, where the senate meets. Twenty-three daggers will plunge. Will he meet his fate head on? Will he manage to survive?
This is an alternate history inflection point story.]
Kalends of March, year of the consulship of Marcus Antonius and Aulus Hirtius
Gaius Julius Caesar strode down the street alongside today's aide. The weather was still bitter cold, though he knew it could get much colder. His bones remembered the freezing nights on the campaign in Gaul and further north, where he'd had to break the ice in his wash water every morning. No, Rome was a much more pleasant place to be this time of year. He pulled his garments tighter against the frigid wind, wishing he'd brought something with a hood. His bones might remember the hard, frozen ground, but they were also halfway through their fifth decade.
Ahead, between two buildings, he saw two figures, huddled together, speaking in whispers. As they approached the alleyway, Julius recognized his friend Brutus and that sniveling weasel of a man Cassius.
"I don't trust that man," Julius muttered.
"Sir?"
"Cassius. He's just so... pale."
"Yes, sir."
"A good man has a good tan, I always say."
"Yes, sir. Certainly, sir."
He'd never understood what Brutus saw in that little rat. Sure, he was handsome enough, but surely at their age, Brutus wasn't in it just for the looks? Ah well, to each their own.
"There's too much whispering in this city now. We should do something about that. Maybe Spurinna can shed some light on this whole situation."
The seer Spurinna had sent him an urgent missive. He had dire news that couldn't be trusted to a messenger, so Julius had had to haul himself across town to hear it in person. He'd met the man before, even paid for his services. What if this was this just a way to get more of his money? Julius shook his head. The greed in the Republic was truly becoming disgusting.
---
"Twenty-three..." Julius hummed.
"Yes, my lord. Twenty-three men will plunge their daggers deep and spill the liquids in you and on the marble floor before the end of the day on the ides of March."
Julius considered the scrawny old man and his scattering of entrails. The metallic smell of freshly butchered fowl filled his nostrils. Did he eat the birds after he spilled their guts? The thought floated across an odd calm. He'd always known people would try to kill him, but this... At least if he had a warning, maybe he could prevent his fate, or at least postpone it.
But then again, he didn't truly believe in this superstitious garbage. The Gods wouldn't be so transparent as to leave clues to their plans in the guts of chickens or ducks, would they?
He paid the seer and strode out the door without another word. His guard, still visibly frustrated at being left outside, fell in alongside him. Despite his own insistence that it was just superstition, he couldn't help but feel eyes spying on him from every shadow.
---
Ides of March, year of the consulship of Marcus Antonius and Aulus Hirtius
Julius woke with a start as Calpurnia screamed. He had his sword in his hand and was between his wife and the door to their sleeping chamber before she had to draw breath. The room was empty, and as her scream faded, all he could hear was the wind outside.
"Where..."
"A dream. Julius, I'm sorry. A nightmare... I—"
Julius sheathed his sword and sat on her side of the bed, his racing heart calming. By the light leaking through the shutters, pre-dawn was just beginning to color the sky gray. She looked so beautiful in this light, her face delicate despite a prominent nose, her hair tied back in a loose braid for sleep. He held a hand up to her cheek, and she pressed her face against it.
"You were dead," she whispered, barely audible even in the pre-dawn quiet, her voice thick with the remembered pain. "I was cradling you in my arms, your robes were soaked through with blood."
Julius gently kissed her forehead even as Spurinna's words sang through his mind. "I'm here, my love. I'm hale."
"Don't go to the senate today?"
Julius blinked. She'd never tried to interfere with his duties, as was fitting for a wife. He wasn't angry. He loved her too much to ever be angry with her for a simple question.
"Love, I can't stay away. There's an important vote, I—"
"Please..." Her tone was full of fear and need and so tiny he almost thought he imagined it, yet so insistent despite it.
"Alright, I'll stay here."
Calpurnia wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tight. "Thank you. I can't lose you, my love."
"Nor I you." Julius stroked the top of her head, his nose buried in her hair as he kissed her forehead. She smelled of the perfumed soap the slaves washed her with every morning. Underneath, there was the smell he associated just with her.
The proximity to his wife made his loins stir, his cock pressing against his sleeping garments.
"The little dictator is up early, I see," she said.
"He enjoys being close to his public." He squeezed his wife and kissed the top of her head. "But he can wait his turn if you would rather try to sleep."
His entire position as the Dictator Perpetuus would be compromised if anyone found out he did not just take his wife whenever he wanted. She'd been so timid at first, after their marriage, but he'd sat her down and explained everything. A bad experience in his youth, a man of higher status... He'd talked with friends, who had similar experiences and simply took out their own frustrations on those around them, but he couldn't on his wives. Besides, they both had slaves that they sought out if their needs didn't match on a particular night. Another thing he'd be ridiculed for, if they knew his wife slept with the slaves.
Her hand slid down his front, resting on his loins. "I'd like to hear what he has to say. I like his speeches, he has a very—" she squeezed him through the thin fabric of his sleep tunic "—firm tone I enjoy."
Julius kissed his wife, her lips peach-soft and twice as sweet. She was putty in his arms, so soft and perfect. They laid back down together, lips still locked. Sometimes, their coupling was intense, a need flowing from both of them for more, now, but this early morning he could feel Calpurnia needed reassurance more than anything. He honestly felt the need himself as well, Spurinna's words still echoing through his mind. The end of the ides...
He helped her out of her tunic, then kissed his way down her chest and stomach to her sex. Her spread legs wrapped around his head as his tongue found its mark, probing gently at first before following her unspoken directions to her muffled climax as she covered her mouth with her pillow.
When he entered her, his worries vanished as her arms clutched his back. His release was so intense, he collapsed onto Calpurnia, whispering her name.
They lay together as the sun rose and climbed high enough to illuminate the far wall of the sleeping chamber through the slats of the spring shutters. When his servant came to wake him, he shooed the man away and told him to have Mark Anthony dismiss the senate.
---
Halfway through the morning, another rap at the door roused him from his dosing.
"My Lord Caesar, Lord Brutus is here to speak with you." The voice was muffled by the thick wood of the door, but the anxiety in it was still clear.
"Tell him to go home. The senate is not meeting today."
"He was quite insistent, my lord."
Julius sighed and kissed Calpurnia's forehead again. "I'll go deal with him. You stay here."
"Be safe, my love."
Brutus sat in the atrium, drinking a cup of tea a slave had brought him.
"Salve, meus Brutus!"
"Salve, Caesar. Why are you not at the senate, my friend?"
Julius took another cup and sat opposite Brutus. "I've had some bad omens relating to today, so I am staying at home. Both from my wife, and from a haruspex."
Brutus laughed. "Omens?! Why, Julius, are you getting superstitious in your old age?"
He sipped his tea to get a moment to think. Brutus was a friend, but he was also ambitious. "I think it can be wise to be cautious with how much whispering I've seen in dark alleyways."
Brutus laughed again. "The great Julius Caesar, scared of women's dreams and the ramblings of foolish old men. Truly, the Republic is in a dire state."
"Watch your tongue, Brutus." Julius regretted the tone the second he heard it come from his mouth, but he did not like people disparaging his wife in her own home.
"Come on, old friend, I merely jest. Come to the senate. I will watch your back for you, if you are afraid of knives in the dark."
Julius considered. He could feel Brutus's ambition, knew if he showed weakness now, he'd be in front of the assembled senate within the hour proclaiming their Dictator Perpetuus had lost his mind and was cowering in his home. His promise to Calpurnia and Spurinna's warning of the Ides tugged at him, but he couldn't see another way out. If he went, he could lose everything, but he saw in his friend's eyes that if he stayed in the safety of his own home, he would lose everything. Perpetuus would be a title to be scoffed at, while Brutus wielded ultimate power. If he didn't just send his troop of gladiators to kill him and his entire family in their sleep that very night.
"Very well," he sighed. "Wait in the vestibule while I prepare to leave."
Calpurnia was not happy he was going, but she was politically astute enough to see he had no choice. She kissed him before he left, longer than was proper in public, and he could smell the tears forming in her eyes.
"Come back to me, my love, no matter the cost."
---
The senate was crowded, with lots of men milling about. Julius could feel every eye on him, felt the room behind him thick with daggers and swords. Spurinna had been outside, warning him that the day was not over yet.
Brutus had taken him by the elbow as they passed into the senate chamber, marching him forward even as he tried to slow.
"Mea Brutus..."
Brutus leaned close. "Listen, 'Dictator Perpetuus'," The scorn for the title was palpable. It felt like a knife between his ribs. "Your reign ends today."
Julius's breath caught in his throat. Calpurnia, my love… He tried to shake himself free of Brutus's grip, tried to reach his own dagger.
"You die today, and your family will soon follow you. Your estates will burn to the ground and the soil will be salted so no one can live there for ten generations." Julius's heart wrenched in his chest. Calpurnia, no… "Or, you submit to me and my party, and we let you and that degenerate woman of yours live. You even get to keep your title, though everyone will know it's a farce and you're a figurehead."
The world spun around him, time slowing to a crawl, the smell of freshly butchered fowl stinging his nose. He saw a flash, two roads: One where his own entrails, spilled on the marble floor of the forum as one of Spurinna's birds, predicted the rise of an Empire to rival the gods. One where he lived on, got to grow old with Calpurnia, to see his grandkids have children of their own. Down that path, the empire lay concealed to him behind Calpurnia's all-encompassing eyes. It could rise or burn to the ground.
He teetered. He had lived for the glory of Rome, to spread Roman civilization to the unwashed masses, to bring order to a world rife with chaos, subjugate those that needed subjugating. He'd sacrificed everything in his life for the Republic, climbed to the very top, just for that goal. I'll never submit. It's better to live on your feet than die on your knees. The words formed on his tongue, ready to be spoken, when he felt the remembered touch of his Calpurnia's peach-soft kiss and saw the flecks of gold in her dark eyes.
She spoke softly in his ear, her body miles away, but her voice clear as crystal. "It's better to live on your knees than to die on your feet. A dead man cannot reclaim a throne, my love."
"I yield."
The words stung more than the daggers would, even as a whisper. He'd tasted enemy steel a number of times, but this pain cut deep into his soul.
"Not good enough, even had you said it aloud."
Brutus took Caesar's dagger away and pushed him down to his knees, then in one quick motion, sliced the fabric of his toga right where the pin held it in place. The blade nicked his skin, sending a sharp jolt of fire through him as the garment sank onto his belt.
"Wha—"
Hands grabbed him from behind and someone stepped on his calf, holding him in place on his knees. The marble was hard, his knees already aching. He watched in amusement as Brutus undid his own toga, exposing his cock, still limp. It looked sad and shriveled.
He'd lain with men often enough, on campaigns with comrades before he gained rank, in bathhouses, even with some of his slaves. If it ever came out that he'd tried receiving from one of the slaves he'd captured in Gaul... and enjoyed it too... No, Brutus and his conspirators did not scare him. In fact, he felt himself stir at the thought of what they'd do to him. He laughed at the absurdity of his protégé standing in front of him, getting ready to rape him, and he couldn't even find it in himself to have an erection.
"You're going to humiliate me in front of your gathered audience? That's your plan?" Julius laughed. The slap stung, and he spat at Brutus's feet. "Next time you're going to rape someone, at least have the decency to have an erection. Or are you not man enough for that?"
Julius already felt the gears turn in his head, seeing ways he could reduce his own perceived humiliation, and decrease Brutus and his coconspirators' standing at the same time. He also acknowledged he shouldn't push too hard, or they might still decide to kill him or his family out of spite. This knife edge of politics and danger made him feel alive in ways he hadn't in years. His immediate urge was to absolutely lay into Brutus, humiliate him to within an inch of his life, ridicule his manhood, expose what a pathetic little play this was, that a real politician wouldn't have to stoop this low. That would just end with a dagger between his ribs and Calpurnia being made a slave to one of these sad excuses for Romans. He refused to look cowed, though. If the Republic required him to suck off his rivals, he'd do so with his head held high.
He opened his mouth to insult Brutus a little more, to call for the gathered senators to behold how useless a man stood before them, limp when his perceived duty to the empire demanded he be hard, but Brutus forestalled him by shoving his limp manhood into his mouth. While he knew biting the pathetic thing off would be the death of him, Caesar couldn't resist letting Brutus know he still had teeth. He glared up at his attacker, fire bright in his eyes.
"If you don't get us off until there's none left interested, we'll have to see if Calpurnia can do better," Brutus said.
Julius pictured it, briefly. His protégé doing this to his wife. His imagined Calpurnia showed none of his restraint and bit clean through Brutus's limp appendage, spitting it out at his feet with his blood dripping from her chin. She glared defiantly as the knife sank into her breast, cursing the entire conspiracy with her last breath. Her earlier imagined words rang in his ears earlier, "dead men don't reclaim thrones", and got to work.
A hush had fallen over the theater, the rest of the senate watching as Brutus's group cornered him. Julius heard murmurs and shuffling feet, but no one tried to intervene. He fumed silently at the implicit betrayal of his senate as Brutus grew hard in his mouth, his member responding to a warm, wet environment as much as anything else. There had been friendly faces in the crowd, people he'd trusted as much or more than Brutus.
Brutus, meanwhile, was rough. Once he was fully erect, he shoved his manhood down Julius's throat. Julius forced his gag reflex down, refusing to show weakness even now. The act would've felt degrading, had he not experienced it before. In his most private life, he enjoyed giving this pleasure to others. If anything, this was more degrading for Brutus, being reduced to forcing himself on another man for political power.
He glared up at Brutus, letting the man feel every shred of disdain he had for him as he fought the urge to gag. Brutus tried to meet his eyes, but had to look away, fucking his face rougher in retaliation for the lost battle of wills. Julius coughed, retched a little, then refocused his will, finding strength in the small victory. He felt Brutus's cock stiffen, knowing what was coming soon. Another victory, even if others would see it as defeat.
"Bah, you suck cock like a virgin," Brutus said, pulling back.
His cock was covered in spit and mucus from Julius's abused throat, bobbing in the air as it twitched. Briefly, Julius thought he'd explode all over him, relishing the thought of the humiliation Brutus would suffer at reaching his climax so soon at the hands of his political rival. Alas, his manhood quieted soon enough.
"Get him on all fours." Brutus motioned to his co-conspirators impatiently. "And get those clothes off him."
He was pushed down onto his hands and knees. Knives nicked his skin as they cut through his robes, a slow drop running down his leg. He could feel it tickle his leg hair. A deeper nick, the wielder of this blade intentionally not careful, dripped his blood onto the polished marble. With his clothes cut away completely save for his sandals, the cold bit as much as the daggers did. Was that cut deep enough for Spurinna's warning? His liquids—
Brutus pressed his mucus-slicked cock against his ass and plunged it deep inside in one go. The intrusion hurt at first, mostly as it was so unexpected, but his own spit and thick mucus provided ample lubrication once he managed to relax a little. Brutus pulled back and shoved deep inside of him again as Julius's blood slowly dripped onto the tiles from his cuts.
Suddenly, Julius laughed. Each time Brutus plunged back into his ass, his laugh hitched from the impact. Brutus's 'dagger' was sure plunging deep. It hit that amazing spot deep inside that sent electric shocks through his entire body. If he kept going, Julius would most definitely spill his liquids on the marble, even if the tiny drips of blood didn't count.
"Someone shut him up," Brutus growled, then when one of the other conspirators — Spurius, if Julius recognized him correctly from his odd position — grabbed for shreds of his cut up toga, he added gruffly, "No, you fool. Fuck his mouth, degrade him."
Spurius was already hard when he parted his robes. Julius wondered if the man spent much time in the back rooms at the bathhouse. This wasn't a display that should normally arouse a proper Roman, but then Julius had to acknowledge his own cock was as hard as it had been this morning with his wife.
His new assailant was as rough as Brutus had been, plunging in with complete disregard for the comfort of his target. Julius fought for breath, especially when another set of hands force his head down onto Spurius and kept it there. He coughed, trying to get a breath past an obstructed airway, but couldn't. His vision started to blur at the edges, the world losing its color even as Brutus roared in perceived triumph and twitched in his ass, emptying his worthless seed where it could do the empire no further harm by producing offspring.
As soon as Spurius vanished from his throat, Julius gasped, drinking in sweet fresh air. He managed four deep, rasping breaths before his head was yanked back painfully and another manhood was placed in his mouth. His eyes were too filled with tears to recognize the man, but the robes had a banding in a color that Gaius Trebonius tended to favor. Brutus's cock slipped out, but was quickly replaced by what he guessed must be Spurius's.
As his new assailants worked at him from two ends, Julius gave himself over to staying alive and whole. He'd lost wrestling matches as a boy, but never more than once, and he'd survived because he knew when to protect his life over his perceived honor. He'd been in enough scrapes as a grown man too, including his captivity at the hands of pirates, to know when to just buckle down and get through. This was one of those times. As uncomfortable as the abuse of his throat was at first, he was growing accustomed to it now, and the mucus helped make the cocks in his ass actually pleasant.
Trebonius roared at the gathered senate, "Behold your Caesar, reduced to tears and hopeless whimpering by our manhoods. Is this who you want leading you?"
Julius barely registered the murmur. There wasn't strong assent in the gathered senators, as Trebonius would have hoped. Still, Trebonius seemed to feel validated. Maybe there were nods he couldn't see himself, face buried in robes and pubic hair. The older man groaned and twitched, pressing his cock deep down Julius's throat as he emptied himself.
As he pulled back, Julius let his teeth scrape his assailant's cock, which earned him a smack hard enough to send him to his stomach, flat on the cold marble. Spurius collapsed on top of him, the new position driving his cock in at an even more pleasurable angle.
Julius could feel his own pleasure mount, the rough treatment and pain somehow adding onto it in ways he hadn't expected. Deep down, he knew he was meant to guide this nation, to rule as Dictator Perpetuus for long years ahead, but right now all he could do was be a set of holes to use for others' pleasure. He grunted with each deep thrust of Spurius's cock until he too stiffened inside and bellowed through his climax.
Three. Only twenty to go.
Fresh cocks replaced Spurius and Trebonius, unidentifiable except by their pleasured grunting. He heard Brutus proclaim something, but couldn't make out what. The new conspirator fucking his ass was bigger than before, but stretched out as he was, and with mucus and two loads lubricating him, Julius welcomed the increased sensation. His cock, pressed between him and the spit-slick marble, slowly leaked more of his liquids onto the floor of the theater of Pompey.
Cock after cock emptied itself down his throat or in his ass. He was flipped over onto his back, his cock bobbing pathetically as a young conspirator energetically fucked him. Several of the group just stroked their manhood over him until they spilled on his chest or abdomen. Some he recognized, others were too obscured by bodies or the inevitable tears from having his throat abused, or sheer overwhelm from all the sensations they were giving him.
Fourteen. Nine more...
He came himself, properly, as the young senator pounded him, his cock going rock hard and twitching in the air as it spilled untouched. The hammering of his insides had finally built enough and long enough for his climax to peak and throw him over the edge. He felt the momentary shame of climaxing at the hands of would-be usurpers, of showing outwardly how good this felt, but then surrendered again to the situation. They were doing this to him, but he would come out the other end alive. He would rebuild support, retake his throne, and he'd cast each and every to his slaves, to ravage and use as they saw fit. For their betrayal, not for what they were doing to him now. What they were doing now was filling him with ideas for the next Saturnalia celebration, when the roles of society would be flipped.
As the twenty-third load flooded his bowels, Julius started laughing again. A slow laugh from deep inside, a laugh of victory, of life and survival, of triumph over those that would have ended him. He had survived. He had won, no matter how anyone else saw today, shown that he was up to this challenge. He'd seen the gathered senators file out one by one at least three conspirators ago, leaving him surrounded by just Brutus and his pathetic little group. They'd tried to shame him, but instead managed to bore their onlookers and show how pathetic their coup was.
He caught Brutus's eye, saw that his former friend knew what was going on, knew how lost he was. Briefly, Julius worried that he'd kill him out of spite, but with the slump of his protégé's shoulders, he knew his life would be spared this day. Good thing too, as he doubted he could lift his arms, let alone put up a defense.
"Et tu, Brute?" Julius managed as his enemy turned to leave, his voice hoarse from the abuse his throat had suffered.
The conspirators slinked off like the rats they were, crawling back into the shadows they had occupied before, leaving Julius to stare up at the statue of Pompey the Great. Another ally turned against him. As dead as Brutus would be soon enough. The statue seemed to regard him with a mixture of admiration and contempt, the same look the real Pompey had given him after his defeat at Pharsalus.
Julius drifted at the edge of consciousness for an undeterminable amount of time, until finally someone stirred in the Curia. He managed to turn his head, only to recognize three of the slaves from his own stables. Three he knew Calpurnia trusted implicitly. His heart reached out to his wife, willing her to know he yet lived. They were carrying a litter, as if expecting to find a dead man to return to their mistress.
"Salvete," Julius croaked.
The trespass of addressing slaves as free men felt minor compared to what happened here, and he had truly never been happier to see anyone in his life. Friends, not slaves. Maybe he'd convince Calpurnia to free them out of gratitude. At the least, they'd earned rooms in the house, away from their barracks.
They gathered him up gently, loading him onto the litter after checking his wounds, and wiping the worst of his assailant's leavings with his discarded robes. Thankfully, they had a blanket to cover him as they lifted and made for the Via outside. He desperately wanted to stay awake, to show the people of Rome that he was alive and well, but within the safe care of his own soon-to-be-former slaves, he slipped into unconsciousness, one arm slipping from the side of the litter.
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If you haven't heard, the em dash has been getting a lot of attention lately…
Because it was trained on pirated work—including freely accessible online writing (like fanfic, academic texts)—ChatGPT picked up patterns and quirks native to human writing.
Including (sigh) the em dash.
There are other victims here (RIP tapestry and delve 🫠), but the appropriation of the em dash—a punctuation mark beloved by writers everywhere—feels especially personal.
A kind of low-grade panic is ensuing. Writers who once memed their own em dash overuse—the greatest punctuation mark ever to grace the control-freak’s lexicon, frankly—are suddenly backing away to avoid accusations.
No. More. We have centuries of dash-abusing writers behind us. We will not sit quietly while AI repurposes our beloved stilted aside—or the just-one-more clarification the sentence demands—or the dramatic pause your comma could never—etc.
You don’t write like AI—AI writes like you.
Defend the em dash.
(Feel free to download/share/stick it where it matters!)
keep seeing people being morally outraged there is emergency Narcan in elementary schools. uh yeah. kids are stupid and love to pop random pills like they’re candy. luckily, the only medication I got into as a child was my nana’s canker sore numbing gel but it’s good that Narcan is there because you never know when a kindergartener might get into their cancer patient grandma’s opioids. young kids fall victim to accidental overdoses fairly regularly, due to caregiver incompetence or sheer bad luck. they’re not there because 2nd graders are snorting fentanyl recreationally and even if they were, no child deserves to die and the Narcan is a very important emergency option. framing this as a symptom of societal moral decay and not a safety measure meant to protect children is fucking weird.
it is good that it is there. for students, for staff, for parents, for community members. the presence of an item that can prevent a traumatic death on school grounds is a good thing.
“i think we shouldn’t let children die of accidental drug overdoses and use all of the tools at our disposal to prevent it” — a somehow controversial standpoint in the eyes of moralistically obsessed conservatives and liberals alike
People might bring up Vincent van Gogh as an example of a painter who did great work in spite of, or because of, his suffering. I like to think that van Gogh would have been even more prolific and even greater if he wasn't so restricted by the things tormenting him. I don't think it was pain that made him so great, I think painting brought him whatever happiness he had.
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"You are being accused of making a pact with the devil and becoming a witch, how do you declare yourself?" The woman replied, "Innocent, I made a pact with an angel, I would never lower myself to speak with demons."
"Demons are below me, but I am a witch! You are all fools to think you could ever capture and hold a true witch."
She made a motion with one hand, still tied behind her back, spoke something in reverse Old Enochian. The light from outside dimmed as the clouds thickened to blackness, the room filling with an eerie blue-green glow. Her bonds fell away, her simple farmer's dress flashing alight and burning away in an instant of bright green fire, revealing a gown of opaque black roiling fog covering her from head to toe. A hat appeared in her hands with a flourish, and she gave the congregation a leering grin.
"You need to end this practice. No woman with even a shred of the Craft would let herself be tried and executed."
The congregation screamed, cowering behind pews as she began chanting again. The wind picked up inside, blowing out the candles, tearing at wall hangings, flinging about loose paper. Her eyes glowed green, viridian lightning arching through the clouds of her dress. The hem churned like a tornado about to touch down.
She felt for the local leyline, a disused thing corrupted by petty minds building their stone structures on top of it. It hummed in her mind, eager to be used again.
"I will not curse anyone here today, but I will protect those that need protecting. Know that the next witch trial held here will end with death, but not of the defendant."
As she spoke the last word, she ripped at reality, stepping outside of it for the first time in years, letting the eager leyline move her away from the place she'd called home for a decade or more. Perhaps it was time to find a coven again...
"I HATE YOU, YOU AREN'T EVEN MY REAL MOM!" your adopted daughter says slamming the door to her bedroom. Most mothers would say "she didn't mean it," and maybe have some wine about it. You don't have that luxury, you're a mutant. You're power is lie detection. She..meant it. She hates you.
You sigh. This power brings you more pain than people know, but never as much as the first time your daughter truly meant those three words. Not even when your wife — ex wife, you correct yourself — said "I love you" that first time she didn't mean it.
You'd waved it off, hadn't engaged with it. You had your own moments where you said it but didn't feel it. You assumed that maybe Elsa hadn't been that way, hadn't been as bad as you at loving her wife, that this was her first time saying it without feeling it because while love is emotion, love is also work, love is a commitment made over and over each and every day, a conscious choice to believe in the other person. But as the days went on…
Your daughter. She'd meant those three words the first time when she was three. She'd wanted the big banana split, the damn thing almost as big as her head. You'd said "no". She'd meant it then, but not as much as she meant it now.
The first time she really meant it, she was twelve. She'd wanted to go to space camp, the summer after Elsa left. You'd wanted her to, she deserved it, she worked hard at school and was so, so understanding about the divorce it broke your heart. But the money just hadn't been there. Space camp was expensive, and no amount of rice and beans for dinner could make the money appear in time.
"I hate you." The words drift through your mind, the feel of them still solid and heavy, not like a lie's incorporeal cold. You picture her, three years ago now, tears streaming down her face, emotion so powerful it couldn't be contained. Those same three words as today.
This is the price you pay for this power. The knowledge that love is flawed, that it is never truly unconditional. But you'd rather have the intensity of your daughter's words than the indifference that had snuck into your wife's, no matter what they were.
You hear your daughter again in your memory, only a few days after that first true "I hate you". You'd smiled at her as she walked into the kitchen, putting all the warmth you had into your smile. She walked up and hugged you. "I love you, Mom."
The sincerity in her voice had been like tungsten red hot from the forge. It burned brightly in your mind like it always did when she said those three words. That was the reason this power was worth any price. With those three words, you know that love is real, even if it is a choice, and a job, and takes conscious and constant effort.
Back in the hallway outside your daughter's room, you smile. You know that second moment will come, it always does.
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Oh, they were prepared... to feed tens of thousands of poor people into the capitalism grinder feet first to make sure the capitalism grinder slowed as little as possible.
A bisexual woman helps her lesbian wife through her werewolf transformation by having a one night stand with a guy.
[Author's note under the fold]
"You have a dog?" Peggy's one night stand gestured at the cage stuffed under the raised bed.
She smiled at Clint over her shoulder, but didn't answer, instead drawing him further into the bedroom and making sure Val followed them. Her love looked dejected and trepidatious, even if Peggy could see the excitement in her eyes. Val's hair was wild tonight. It usually was around this time of the month. She'd been so wild last night when they'd had sex. Peggy hoped he wouldn't mind the bruises.
"Peg—"
"Dogs don't speak, Valerie."
Val's mouth shut with a click.
"Nor do they wear clothing. Clint, would you undress the little doggy for me?"
Author's Note:
This work includes a short scene between Peg and Valerie, after her transformation is complete. Her werewolf's curse manifests by turning her into a human-sized wolf, with her intelligence intact. She cannot speak like this, but can very much still communicate consent, and this consent has been discussed prior. A fictional bystander in the room for this scene would just see a gigantic 160lbs wolf get fingered by a woman who then has it go down on her. This is where the "pseudo-bestiality" tag comes from.
If you do not wish to read this scene, you can still get 90% of the fic by reading up to the point where Val hears the front door click shut. That leaves two very brief mentions of transformed-Valerie going down on herself in her cage while Peg and Clint are on the bed.
---
This work was created for Krakentober, an event in the style of Kinktober on The Erotica Abyss, a Discord server I'm a moderator for, where we get three prompts for a day to pick and choose from, or combine. The event is very freestyle, the prompts are entirely up to interpretation, and you can substitute your own if you want.
This day's prompt was "Cuckolding - Werewolves - Cage". I used all three for this story.
Despite only having met the man in person a few minutes ago, she trusted him well enough to stick to the boundaries they'd set chatting online. Besides, she knew Val was in no mood to have hers broken without protest. Peg just hoped the protest wasn't too… violent this time. It had taken a lot of effort to get the blood out of the carpet from the last one that had taken liberties. But then they'd heard that one had been forcing himself on people he met on Tinder, so the hydrogen peroxide had felt like a solid investment in their community's safety.
"Can I touch you?" Clint asked. "Nothing beyond what we discussed of course."
Peg smiled at Val, who nodded silently. Peg settled back, leaning against the bed, watching Clint as he carefully undid the buttons on Val's cardigan then pushed it off her shoulders to pool on the shag rug. Her top joined it quickly enough, but then Clint hesitated.
"And the bra."
Val's eyes were full of bone-deep shame, even if Peg recognized her hard breathing and the flush of her chest and neck for the arousal it must be. Val hated having men look at her, but shame and humiliation drove her wild at the same time. Having Peg's one night stand undress her had been their latest way to push boundaries. Maybe in a few months, another could touch her a little after undressing her, but Clint would have to be satisfied with what he got. Though she did have a little extra in mind for her puppy.
Clint reached behind her love with one hand and with a single twist undid the hooks on her back. Val blinked in shock even as Peg's mouth twisted with disappointment. She'd been looking forward to him fumbling with the closure for a bit, ratcheting up Val's shame. Next time, she'd make her wear something with a front clasp.
Peg pulled Clint back by the waist of his sweatpants — worn at her request — and slipped an arm around him. "What do you think of her tits?" Val hated that word. "Don't they look amazing?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Do you like my dog?" Peg glanced down at the tent in his sweats, sliding her hand near his waistband. "Is that for her?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Well, she's still wearing clothes like a silly puppy, why don't you help her out of those jeans?"
Clint seemed eager now, fumbling with the button on Val's tight jeans. Peggy had picked them on purpose, knowing they were hard to get off. The zipper took three tries, the fabric getting caught twice. Val trembled with the embarrassment of being undressed by a man as he tugged to get the jeans over her hips. Her boobs jiggled and she had to steady herself with one hand on Clint's broad shoulder as he yanked.
There was a distinct wet spot on Val's underwear. That pair had been another intentional choice by Peggy, an older one, humiliating to be seen in for how worn they were, and also effectively disposable. A tuft of silver blonde pubic hair stuck out through a hole. Clint was breathing hard now too. Could he smell her? She knew Val would be able to smell Clint's arousal by now. Her parted lips showed pointier than usual canines, and there was a distinct yellow sheen to Val's normally hazel irises.
Clint didn't notice, gaze locked onto the strand of grool connecting Val to her underwear as he pulled them off. They were soaked, the fabric glistening.
Peg took Val's underwear from Clint and gestured for him to take his pants off. "Go sit on the edge of the bed."
As she stood, she brushed the lightest kiss across Val's lips, feeling the thickening peach fuzz there, whispering "Puppies can say the safe word," before climbing onto the bed behind Clint. She held eye contact with her love as she wrapped the slick fabric of Val's underwear around Clint's cock.
---
Valerie felt it approaching before Clint even arrived. This had been her reality for many years, a pattern unbroken since that terrifying night when she was nineteen. Her thoughts had been jumbled all day, making focus hard. Even yesterday, focus had been hard, and when Peggy had dragged her into bed early, pushed her down, things had gotten a little rougher than usual… A red mist had descended over her vision. She'd been afraid it would start early, but with Peggy's expert tongue and fingers distracting her, she'd managed to stay herself.
Now, watching her wife use her own underwear to stroke off some random guy they'd found online, she knew it would start soon. Shame and jealousy and humiliation raged through her, all fueling an arousal that couldn't be controlled or contained. They'd have to throw those away. The thought of having a piece of fabric on her that touched some guy's junk turned her stomach. The thought of her arousal on him, even after a wash… He had a glazed look of pleasure as Peggy's expert fingers stroked him.
Val poked at her canines with her tongue. Beginning to lengthen in truth now. The urge to bite and claw and rend flesh was building, the urge to tear the man's throat out, feel his life blood coat her tongue and stream down her front, matting her fur—
She shook herself. Not yet. Not yet. Not this one.
"Does my puppy like watching her mistress stroking cock?"
Val whimpered. A whine. A large dog forced to stay home or denied a treat. Clint looked at her, head tilted. His gaze, the eye contact; shame and jealousy flared, the intensity of emotion feeding into her coming transformation. It hurt now that it was starting in earnest, but the intensity of her arousal and the absolute turmoil in her mind pushed the pain to the background. Nostrils flared as she panted, new and intense smells feeding back into the storm that was howling inside her skull. Peg's arousal. Clint's. The drop of precum that soaked into her underwear on the next upstroke.
"What the fu—" Clint started, scrambling back and up onto the bed, away from her. His pasty, hairy ass made her nose wrinkle.
"It's time for puppy to get in her crate, I think."
Valerie wanted to stay out, wanted to watch, but she knew before long she wouldn't have the control she needed. Her spine cracked, limbs shifting, rib cage popping as it deepened and narrowed. Thick silver blonde fur sprouted on her hands even as fingers shrank and palms lengthened. Canines shot to their full inch and a half length, molars sharpened. Val grunted, arousal momentarily forgotten as agony flared. She let Peggy pull her towards the bed, fighting the urge to leap up, attack, claw, bite, rip, tear—
The lock made a loud snap as Peggy closed it behind her. Not a moment too soon either, as Val felt her control slip. She snarled, hurling herself at the thick steel bars, long jaws snapping. The bed shook, but the crate held.
Peggy's words drifted through Val as she calmed the man down, her hearing range picking up unfamiliar harmonics that made understanding hard. Jealousy flared as she heard Peg shed her clothes, watched garment after garment hit the floor in front of the cage, then flared again as his protests dwindled when Peg began to suck his cock. The sound of it filled every fiber with shame and jealousy, from the soft rasp of Peg's tongue along sensitive skin to the change in her voice, how it reflected off his body, how her occupied tongue slurred her words. The hint of lust beginning to creep into her wife's voice spiked it further.
---
Peggy didn't give Clint any time to think about what was going on under the bed. She sucked on the head of his cock as she pulled it out of her mouth, the audible pop loud in her ears. Two quick strokes to keep his attention while she grabbed a condom, opening it with her teeth and sliding it on with her mouth. She got the last two inches with her hand as she climbed on top of him and impaled herself.
"Oh, fuck," Clint moaned. "Christ, you're so fucking hot."
"Christ has nothing to do with this," Peg said. Oh, how she preferred the quiet ones.
His hands roamed, large and calloused, squeezing her breasts roughly. As much as she loved being with Val, she did miss this sometimes. Val knew her too well, knew what she liked and what she hated, knew how hard to pinch and squeeze, where to press and how to tease her to within an inch of her life. Clint didn't know her at all, and it didn't matter. They were in a fight to both get what they wanted. She didn't give a shit about him, beyond what he could do to get her off tonight.
She shifted his hands to her hips, leaning forward enough that it'd be awkward to grab her tits again, rocking her hips back and forth. He was hard, she'd give him that. Over the years with Val, she'd found that about half of her one night stands had trouble staying hard with a raging monster under the bed, the other half seemed to be driven to procreate by the fear. Clint was clearly the latter, rock hard and intense in his motions, his eyes going wide every time Val threw herself against the bars underneath them.
Peg climbed off of him, kneeling on the bed. He took the hint almost immediately, sliding back into her from behind.
"I thought doggystyle would be more Valerie's speed," Clint said.
Peg laughed despite herself. Maybe this one was a keeper if he could joke about Val's curse already. "You're braver than I thought, or a lot stupider. She'd literally tear your head off."
"Do you like your ass played with?"
---
Val had trouble understanding what Clint was saying, his voice too unfamiliar to filter properly through her wider hearing range. She had no trouble recognizing the subtle change in Peggy's moans as he slipped a finger into her ass. The smell of the lube hit her nose a second later. She raged even as she felt her shame deepen, clawing at the bars, trying to bite them, snarling in her cage. Her inability to control herself added its own shame. Reduced to incoherency and base animal instincts by some damned curse.
Peg's grunts of pleasure hit something deep inside of her, a need that couldn't be filled any other way. She felt an odd calm, even as part of her raged against all of this, an acceptance of self that went deep. Val couldn't be the focus now, and this curse wasn't ruining Peg's life. It was acceptable for Val to be who she was, to be what she was, to the degree that Peg could do things for herself while the beast raged.
The realization settled in further, calming the rage and shame and humiliation she'd suffered earlier, slowing her thoughts to a crawl. She stopped trying to escape, stopped trying to break the cage, stopped trying to hate Clint and mourn Peg's infidelity. An infidelity Val had asked for, begged for, knew she needed.
Val settled onto the dog bed they kept in the cage. Peg had moved heaven and earth to find one big enough for a 160lbs wolf. Her visual memory wasn't as acute as it was when she was fully human, but flashes of Peg swearing like a sailor as she hauled the massive thing up the stairs to their fourth floor apartment let her accept her wife's love fully.
She began to truly enjoy the noises from the bed. Clint seemed to be good, better than the last one had been. Would Peg invite him back? Would he come back? He didn't smell afraid anymore. Peg's moans flowed through Val. She lifted one leg and buried her snout, thanking this curse for its flexible spine and long tongue.
---
Peg came hard. Val had settled down, and from the soft noises drifting up from under the bed, had joined in. Clint was masterful with his thumb and cock, timing everything perfectly, never pushing for more, refreshing the lube before she even had to think about it getting close to drying. This was the third proper orgasm he'd given her, a rarity for any man, let alone for a first time together.
"I'm getting close," he said, waiting until her orgasm had subsided properly. "Are you still okay with me cumming in the condom like this?"
Peg let out a low, soft moan. "If you want. Or do you want to cum in my mouth? I want to taste you."
"Mmm, yes."
Peg rolled over on her back, pushing up on elbows as Clint knelt over her stomach. She ignored the brief taste of latex and lube as she wrapped her lips around him. His long arms let him reach down, find her still well-lubricated asshole. She moaned deeply as his middle finger played along the rim of her anus. She almost asked him to stop, focusing on sucking his cock was very hard with that distracting finger there. It felt too good though.
"I'm so close," Clint said. His voice was thick with it. "Oh yes, I'm going to cum."
His grunts filled her mind as his cock pulsed in her mouth. She moaned along with him, feeling like his pleasure pulsed through her as well, the salty, metallic taste on her tongue confirming she'd done well for him. Odd that that mattered now when it hadn't half an hour ago. That delicious finger, still circling even through the height of his climax, definitely had something to do with that.
She stopped soon after the last pulse, then opened her mouth to show him. Some guys loved seeing the before and after swallowing, and she didn't want to disappoint him. His gentle hand — not the one he'd used on her ass — on her cheek drew her forward. Was he near-sighted?
"Can I kiss you?"
Peg hummed, and their tongues met. So many of her exes had refused to kiss for hours after she gave them a blowjob, even if they hadn't cum in her mouth. His finger slipped into her ass as his low moan of pleasure at tasting himself coursed through her. Peg was lost in the moment, a perfection she hadn't known she wanted, needed, from her partners. His semi pressed against her stomach as their kiss drew on and she settled against him.
Before long, she had to break away from the kiss, her breath coming short again as his finger slid in and out of her ass. She could smell cum on his breath, taste it on her tongue.
"Don't stop," Peg moaned. "A little deeper, faster."
Her fourth orgasm, this one after he'd gotten everything he could've wanted from her, wasn't as intense as the first three, but it did let a deep sense of satisfaction settle over her.
He stopped without her asking, sliding his finger out slowly, carefully, then held it pressed against her for a few seconds before pulling his hand away.
"That was amazing," Clint said, one arm around her. The one he'd used to finger her ass lay off to the side, fingers held away from the sheets. "You were amazing."
Peg trembled through an aftershock, settling against him again, head on his shoulder. She kissed his chest. "You were better."
She half-expected a dig at Valerie, or some boast about how other women couldn't blah blah blah, but instead he just lay there, offering comfort and affection after. It didn't matter they didn't really know each other, he knew not to just pump and run. They lay together for a few minutes, catching their breath, enjoying the extended intimacy.
Clint finally broke the silence, comfortable as it rarely was with a stranger. "Is there anything else you'd like to do? I don't know if I can get hard again, that was one of the best orgasms I've had, but I've still got a tongue and fingers if you'd like to keep going."
"I think I'm done too." Peg squeezed him tight and kissed his chest again. "Thank you."
---
Val heard the front door click shut, followed by Peg's soft footsteps along the hallway and back into the bedroom. She'd gotten herself off twice with her tongue before the two above her had quieted, then drifted off to sleep as they cuddled. The rage was gone, the humiliation forgotten, replaced by a deep, inner peace only Peg could help her find in this form. Val in her early twenties had resigned herself to being a non-stop rage monster every full moon.
Peg knelt by the cage, still naked. Val smelled the fresh sweat on her wife, the traces of lube and latex and Clint, and the gentle, distant smell of his cum on her breath.
"Heya love." Peg imbued the simple words with an intensity and depth of emotion Val never understood. How could she in two simple words? "How are you feeling?"
Val's ears lay back and her tail started wagging, both of their own accord. She moved closer to the bars and licked Peg's outstretched hand.
The lock clicked, heavier than the front door, and the cage swung open again. Peggy knew Val wouldn't ever hurt her, not even in the depth of her curse, not even in the bad days, but there'd been one or two times when her one night stand had disrespected boundaries. Val had hunted them down, so now they had this little ritual to make sure the rage that came with the transformation was truly gone.
Laying down on the bed on her side, paws sticking out, with Peggy curled up against her back, Val sighed contentedly. Her love's fingers ran through her fur, caressing and stroking. There'd be more to the night, but right now this was perfection. Val could smell the satisfaction on Peg, the intensity of her orgasms with Clint driving her arousal down for now. But she could smell it building again already too. For her. No one could keep it down long, other than Val herself.
"I think I might see him again." Peg drew patterns in her fur. The start of the rest of their ritual. "He was good. Not as good as you though."
Val let her tail wag softly, the pat-pat-pat still loud on the mattress. Peg's hand slid down her belly, between her hind legs. "Would my good little puppy like a treat?"
Two fingers slid inside of her, slender and long. Val couldn't help humping against them, pushing them deeper. Sometimes, when Peg's one night stand wasn't satisfactory, they spent a long time together, trying toys, occasionally even their strap-on. Val was working on a design that would work for her current physiology, but it was slow going, only being able to test once every lunar cycle at best. She knew that today would be more ceremonial than to sate any kind of need they both still had. Peg's satisfaction ran deep, and the smell of it settled Val's arousal down as well.
Peg's fingers found her clit, buried inside. Finding that out had been fun, even if it happened early in their relationship. The intense intimacy of being with her partner despite her challenging anatomy intensified Val's pleasure and pushed her over the edge in just a few minutes. Peg held her through her orgasm, her body shaking and humping involuntarily. Val's love for her wife flared when the other woman hummed with her fingers in her mouth, licking them clean.
Gentle pressure on her shoulders pushed Val down between Peg's legs. Her labia were bare. The subtle smell of her wife, barely there at all with her human nose, exploded through Val from this close by. With her human body and tongue, she'd have taken her time, gone slow and gone for subtle and caring, but with this smell in her nose and the equipment she had now, subtlety was beyond her.
"Oh yes, good girl," Peg hummed and stroked the hair between Val's ears. "Yes, right there, oh god."
Val's tongue explored every inch of her wife, starting with long licks alone the entire length of her vulva, but then needing to taste her more, burying her tongue deep inside. Her nose scrunched up against Peg's pubic bone, making breathing hard, but that didn't matter.
Peg came on her tongue in no time, writhing with the intensity, moaning softly. Sometimes, she let Val continue, but today she pushed her away gently. The beast in the back of her mind wanted to fight to keep going, but Val let herself be pulled up again, into another embrace, curled up together, thoroughly satisfied and their connection reaffirmed.
"I love you, Valerie," Peg whispered into the tick fur on her neck.
Unable to speak, Val made a satisfied noise and nuzzled Peg's arm, tail wagging lazily. She'd tell her tomorrow, when they woke up and she had her own vocal cords again. Sleep wasn't long in coming, not with her true love pressed against her.
